Page 115 of Saddle and Scent
The air between us is practically crackling with unresolved tension.
"You're doing this wrong," I announce when he starts crimping the edge of his latest creation.
"Excuse me?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "I've been making pies since before you knew the difference between a rolling pin and a baseball bat."
"Your crimps are too small," I insist, trying not to grin. "Look, they should be bigger, more dramatic. Like this."
I reach across him to demonstrate, deliberately pressing closer than necessary. My breast brushes against his arm, and I feel him go very still.
"See?" I say, proud of my handiwork. "Much better."
"Juniper," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "What are you doing?"
"Making pies," I say innocently. "Isn't that what we're here for?"
But then I make the mistake of looking up at him.
And the heat in his eyes nearly stops my heart.
"You're playing with fire," he warns softly.
"Good thing you're here to put it out," I reply, then deliberately drag my finger through a bowl of berry filling and lick it clean.
His jaw clenches.
His hands fist at his sides.
And something wild and reckless unfurls in my chest.
"That's it," he growls.
And then all hell breaks loose.
He grabs a handful of flour and tosses it at me with pinpoint accuracy, hitting me square in the chest and sending up a cloud of white powder.
"Beckett Ford!" I shriek, retaliating with a handful of berry filling that lands on his shoulder with a satisfying splat.
And just like that, we're in an all-out food fight.
Flour flying through the air like snow.
Berry juice painting abstract patterns on white aprons.
Both of us laughing and shrieking and making an absolute disaster of his pristine kitchen.
I duck behind the central island, using it as cover while I reload with more ammunition. But Beckett is faster and more strategic, circling around to flank me from the side.
"Surrender," he demands, advancing on me with a bowl of pie filling held like a weapon. "Before this gets even messier."
"Never!" I declare, launching myself at him with a handful of flour.
We collide in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
And then suddenly, we're not laughing anymore.
Because he's pinned me against the counter, his large hands braced on either side of my hips, his body caging me in completely.
Our faces are inches apart.
